


You Lead the Way

by devilsalwayscry



Series: Post-DMCV Fix It Fics [1]
Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Emotional Constipation, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff and Angst, Gen, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2020-01-24 06:48:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18566137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devilsalwayscry/pseuds/devilsalwayscry
Summary: They are brothers, united in this colossal fuck up. Watching Vergil fall next to him - bright, shining Vergil, regal and composed even in his devil form in a way that Dante can never pretend to be - brings him a sense of calm he hasn’t felt in decades. Not since Temen-ni-gru. Not since Vergil last fell.(Dante third person POV, immediately post-DMCV. Dante and Vergil take a hike through the underworld and have a bit of a heart-to-heart, but they are both terrible, terrible communicators.)





	You Lead the Way

**Author's Note:**

> Huge shout out to basically every single fan artist on Twitter, you are all amazing people and your art is an inspiration.
> 
> Most likely part of a series. Haven't written fic in forever but Capcom has given us this wonderful gift and I needed to just dump some words onto a page. I also need these idiot Spardas to sit down and work through their feelings, so that's what you're getting from me: a little fluff, a little angst, and lots of awkward.

There’s a moment, immediately after he jumps into the tangle of roots and away from the only world he’s ever known, where he wonders if Vergil will follow him, or if this entire thing is a ploy to remove Dante from the equation. Once he’s thought it, he can’t escape that worry, and it ricochets around his head like a bullet as he free falls into Hell. Would Vergil leave him, now that they were together again? Did he mean anything to him any more?

It’s not until he hears the flap of wings, feels the rush of air against his left side as Vergil catches up to him, that he lets himself relax. No. They are brothers, united in this colossal fuck up. Watching Vergil fall next to him - bright, shining Vergil, regal and composed even in his devil form in a way that Dante can never pretend to be - brings him a sense of calm he hasn’t felt in decades. Not since Temen-ni-gru. Not since Vergil last fell. 

Dante can’t help but reach out and brush Vergil’s hand with his fingertips even as he darts away from him, burying his worry and fear beneath a playful laugh and a challenge to a race to the bottom. Vergil doesn’t speak, doesn’t need to: he matches Dante’s pace as if he’s read his mind.

They break barriers the way only the Sons of Sparda can, a laugh on his lips as he twists to look back at Vergil, to make sure one more time that he’s not alone in this. This time, they plummet into hell together, as they should’ve all those years ago, and for the first time in decades, Dante feels peace.

* * *

Exhaustion sets in after what Dante can only assume has been days of fighting—each other, the demons that come to them, the demons they hunt down—and they are both collapsed beneath a gnarled root of the Qliphoth, shoulder to shoulder. It is somehow miraculously calm here, silent despite the chaos he can feel lurking in the distance, and now that he has stopped moving, everything aches.

“Well,” he starts, tilting his head back to look at the swirling darkness above them. “Now what?”

Vergil doesn’t respond, and for a moment Dante thinks he is ignoring him on purpose, too stubborn to have a civil conversation with his own twin. Dante nudges his twin’s shoulder with his own, and when that doesn’t earn him a response, he turns to look at Vergil, fearing the worst. The worry rises up in his throat like bile, and he thinks _oh god you better not be dead on me again_ before he can rationalize that fear; the thought, given form, makes the panic burn hot on his face and chest.

“Verg—”

He’s just asleep, eyes closed and head tilted down, the Yamato clutched in his hands and against his shoulder supporting his weight. His chest rises and falls with the gentle, slow movement of slumber, and Dante’s left speechless at the sight of him like this. Vulnerable. Comfortable. His worry fades away as quick as it came, and he scolds himself silently for his blind panic. What they’ve experienced so far isn’t enough to kill either of them, and yet he’d jumped to conclusions, let his fears get the better of him.

It is a distinctly human thing, he thinks, and he takes comfort in that. Better to give in to his more human emotions sometimes than to forget them entirely, especially here in this hellscape.

Dante leans back against the root, careful not to wake his brother. He presses their shoulders together and tilts his head toward Vergil’s, not quite touching, but close enough that he can hear his quiet, steady breathing. The sound of Vergil’s breath soothes him. It’s a reminder that Vergil is really here, alive and whole again—not divided, not controlled, but alive and himself, for the first time in decades.

Alive and with Dante, of his own choice. A part of him had expected Vergil to abandon him once they’d entered Hell, fuck off to wherever he’d been down here before and leave Dante to fend for himself in foreign terrain. Instead, they had fallen into a familiar pattern, as if nothing had happened between them. Fighting, sparring, bickering, yes, but defending each other, as well. Protecting. For the first time in so long, Dante didn’t have to fight like he had eyes in the back of his head, because Vergil was there to fill in his weakness, cover his blind spots. Together they were unstoppable.

Together.

It’s an idea that Dante could get used to, if he’s not careful.

* * *

“So what’s the plan?” Vergil leads the way and Dante follows, a step behind and to his right. Here, lost in the labyrinth of Hell, Dante’s at a disadvantage. Tearing through space time and traversing the underworld are Vergil’s pastimes, not his, and so he defers to the wisdom of his older brother in this one area.

“We find somewhere where the barrier is thin,” Vergil says, as if Dante is meant to understand anything about what that means. He hums as if he does anyway, picking up his pace to bump shoulders with Vergil—an experiment. Vergil doesn’t react other than to briefly, for the faintest moment, lean into the touch, and Dante grins. A success.

He’s more interested in simply being near Vergil, in hearing his quiet, calm voice, than actually knowing the details of their plan. It is what motivates him to ask questions, knowing that Vergil will provide no more details on his own without prompting. He wants to hear his brother talk as much as possible, to make up for the decades of silence.

“So we find somewhere where the line between worlds is thinnest then, right?” Vergil nods, casting a glance at the horizon to the left, ever on the lookout for the next attack. The question is a bad one, repeating what Vergil’s already said rather than adding anything new, and it doesn’t earn him the words that he craves so badly to hear. He’ll have to think of something better, but for now, he contents himself with Vergil at his side, so close he can smell the sweat and dried blood on him.

God, they need a bath.

They walk for several more minutes in silence, and Dante wonders if they’ve killed all of the demons in this part of Hell at this point. They’d drawn quite the crowd at first, two half-demons falling head first into demon terrority, but now that the fervor has worn off and anything close enough to sense them has been disposed of, they finally have a moment of peace.

It’s a stillness he isn’t sure what to do with. When they were fighting, be it each other or their enemies, things were easy. It was a dance they could perform together, perfect partners, born to work as one. This, though, is new. Even before Mallet, before Temen-ni-gru, they had barely spoken. He struggles to find words to fill the void, craving the sound of Vergil’s voice even though he has nothing to offer in return.

The silence drives him mad, and so he gives it another shot: “So once we find this spot, what next?”

It’s a better question. Vergil gives that thoughtful little hum of his, brushing his hand up through his hair while he ponders the answer. Dante stares; he can’t help himself. They’re a wreck, covered in dirt and dried blood and stale sweat, but Vergil is glorious despite it all. Sharp and regal, composed even when he’s not. It fills Dante with such intense envy that he feels for a moment that he could rip Vergil apart right there, but he stops himself before his thoughts can go further down that path. Irrational. He bottles it up, pushes it back where he shoves all his other more demonic thoughts and feelings. This, at least, he is good at.

Vergil’s voice yanks him back to reality:

“Under the right circumstances, we should be able to open a gate with the Yamato, creating a path between worlds,” Vergil says, and Dante stops, because there’s something he’s _not_ saying and it’s starting to worry him a little. When Vergil keeps walking, Dante catches his arm, stopping him with force. Vergil doesn’t look at him.

“What?” He sounds annoyed, but Dante’s not letting him off that easy, because they’re twins; even after all this time, separated first by clashing ideals and then by clashing swords, he knows when his brother is hiding something from him.

“And then what, Verg? We just go through?” Something passes across Vergil’s face, a shudder of something like… uncertainty. It’s there for an instant before it’s bottled up in Vergil’s own mental lockbox of emotions. Is he uncertain that this will work? That seems unlikely. If anyone knows the limits of the Yamato, it’s Vergil, and then it dawns on him, and Dante drops Vergil’s arm and steps back, horrified.

“You aren’t coming. You bastard, you’re planning on staying here, aren’t you?"

Vergil doesn’t respond, and for once, Dante gets the impression it's because he doesn’t really know _how_. 

Torn between punching Vergil in the mouth and screaming at him until he’s hoarse, Dante settles for a little of both: he grabs Vergil by the collar with both hands, shaking him as he pulls him close, forces him to look him in the face. Their eyes lock, both searching for something in the other before Vergil ruins the moment by grabbing Dante’s wrists and squeezing, hard.

“Let go.” It’s more growl than words, but Dante refuses, even as he feels the bones in his wrist grind together at the inhuman pressure Vergil’s applying. He’s not fully transformed yet, but it’s a threat, a warning for Dante to back off. He’s not listening.

“Hell no. We’re talking about this whether you want to or not,” Dante says, and Vergil snarls at him, sharp teeth and gleaming eyes, an expression more devil than human. The fingers on his wrist become pointed claws, and Dante hisses in a breath as warm blood starts running down his forearms in sticky, slow rivulets. It’s odd that Vergil hasn’t jumped straight to excessive force, and Dante wonders what that means. Has some of the fight gone out of him? Judging by the snarling face in front of him, probably not, but he’s giving Dante a chance to resolve things without coming to blows, and it’s a tiny step in the right direction. He needs to get this under control before Vergil stops giving him even that courtesy.

But they’ve never been particularly good at just talking things through, have they?

At a loss for words, he does the first thing that comes to mind: he headbutts Vergil, cracking his forehead against his brother’s chin. It earns him a shocked gasp, and he uses that moment of vertigo to hook a foot behind Vergil’s ankles and knock him off his feet. Dante pounces the moment Vergil hits the ground, before he can do something stupid like teleport away. He plants his knees on either side of Vergil’s chest, pinning his arms to Vergil’s sides; sits his ass down on his abdomen; and summons his sword, just for good measure. He shoves it into the ground above Vergil’s head, singeing a hair or two in the process. Oh well.

“Now, let’s talk about this like civil adults,” he says as he reaches between his thigh and Vergil’s waist to pry the Yamato free from where Vergil’s tied it. He flings it to the side and it hits the stone with a loud clatter, and the look of hatred that Vergil gives him in response makes Dante’s stomach explode with butterflies. It’s an exhilarating look, one he loves more than anything else in that darker, more feral part of his brain, but it’s counterproductive to what he’s trying to achieve. He needs to try to correct their course.

“No.” Dante laughs, pressing his free hand down against Vergil’s chest. It’s almost petulant, the way Vergil says his refusal. The fact he hasn’t transformed and gone for Dante’s throat yet means he still has a chance at this, and he jumps right in, desperate to get to the bottom of his dumbass twin’s decision.

“Don’t ‘no’ me, you asshole. I jumped into Hell with you. The least you can do is explain yourself,” Dante says, and Vergil growls and wiggles beneath him, trying to get free. It’s lacking in his usual venom, and Dante gets the impression he’s not really trying all that hard.

Which is confusing, given the circumstances. It’s like Vergil _wants_ to talk about this but just isn’t sure how.

“I never asked you to.” Dante scoffs.

“Bad answer, try again. Why the hell do you think I’m leaving here without you?” He asks, and when Vergil doesn’t reply, it’s like the fight just seeps right out of him. Leaning back, he lets up the pressure on Vergil’s chest, dismisses his sword and instead busies his hands with his hair and coat, straightening himself out. “Don’t ask me to do that, Verg. I’m not. I won’t.”

There’s an unspoken question in the way Vergil looks at him - why? - that makes Dante want to punch him in the mouth again. That he’d even ask is absurd. They’re brothers, despite what’s come between them in the past, and these days or weeks or hours spent together in Hell have only reaffirmed that fact for him. Now that he’s had that companionship back in his life, he doesn’t think he can go without it, not again.

He considers letting that question hang between them, unaddressed and unspoken, before he forces himself to swallow his pride. They’re passed that, passed petty arguments and fights, refusing to talk things over. He makes a promise to himself to actually _try_ to understand. If he’s asking Vergil to return to the human world with him, he owes him that much, at least.

“Because you’re my brother,” he says, and it’s as far as he can get before his throat slams shut and words fail him. It’s the first time he’s said it out loud in an earnest way in decades. Because he’s already come this far, he continues, barely a whisper, dragging the confession out of his throat between clenched teeth: “And I’ve missed you.”

Vergil’s just staring at him, mouth hanging open and eyes wide. There’s a second Dante thinks maybe he’s killed him, either with the confession or by sitting on his chest for the last ten minutes, but then he blinks and looks away and there’s a faint splash of pink on his face, gone as fast as its come.

_Well that’s unexpected_ , he thinks, clearing his throat and getting slowly to his feet.

It’s the most toothless confrontation they’ve had in decades.

He offers Vergil a hand, but he’s met with a huff and a low grumble as Vergil rolls onto his stomach before pushing himself to his feet. He stands, dusts off his coat, and retrieves the Yamato, all without so much as looking in Dante’s direction; the tension between them is almost palpable. Dante’s certain he could cut it with a knife, if he were so inclined. He could keep poking and prying—wants to so, so badly—but he’s done enough damage for the day, and they still have time to figure this particular issue out. Besides, Vergil picks up the Yamato and returns it to his waist, rather than shove it through Dante’s chest, and he feels like that’s a pretty damn big step in the right direction.

It’s not much, and he’s not sure he’s even gotten through to him, but it’s progress. That’s really all he can ask for right now.

* * *

By Dante’s rough approximation and internal clock, it’s another week before they find what Vergil’s been looking for: their ticket home, a place where, for whatever reason, the line between the underworld and the human world has grown thin. Going into this, Dante hadn’t been sure what they were looking for, didn’t understand how Vergil would be able to tell what it was when they found it. Now that they’re here, though, he can _sense_ it, can sense the humans on the other side of the rift. It feels achingly familiar and he realizes just how much he’s missed home.

They haven’t touched on the matter of Vergil’s plan since their initial argument, although Dante has made a point once or twice to try. For the first few days, Vergil had pretended to not hear when he’d tried to engage him on that particular subject, and Dante had let it drop, too tired to press for more. If Vergil is so intent on staying, then perhaps it’s for the better, and even though that thought makes him feel nauseous to consider, he can’t stop thinking it. It freezes his tongue in his mouth and stops him from prying further.

He hasn’t forgotten the past between them, the decisions that Vergil has made which have ultimately led them to this point. A part of him wants to, wishes he could turn back time and undo the mistakes they made in their youth, but he knows that’s a pointless fantasy. They are stuck with this, for better or for worse, and who’s to say that Vergil’s going to change his ways at all? If Vergil wants to stay, who is he to stop him? 

If Vergil stays, he will as well, he decides as they walk side by side down the slope of a hill and toward a rocky outcrop below. In part because if Vergil stays here, he’s bound to get himself into trouble, one way or another, and Dante will be here to help him sort it out this time. The other reason, if he’s being honest with himself, is that he’s become too used to Vergil’s presence again. Losing him now, after all that time and when things are beginning to look more pleasant between them, is almost unfathomable. It’s not an option.

Despite his resolve and the decisions he’s made, they don’t discuss the matter again until they’re already here: between the hesitation from Vergil and the onslaught of demons that have been harassing them for the past few days, he has simply run out of time.

That acknowledgement makes him feel a rising panic. He knows Vergil, knows how he operates in these situations. He will try to remove Dante’s ability to make a decision here, as he’s done so many times before, and Dante will be left with the aftermath, a relic or memento to remember his brother by, but once more ultimately alone.

Vergil has always had a penchant for the dramatic.

“Hey, why don’t we stop here. Catch our breath for a sec,” Dante says, because it is the first thing that comes to his mind that also has a reasonable chance of making Vergil stop, if only to evaluate whether or not Dante truly needs a moment to rest. It works as he intends, slowing Vergil’s determined pace, before he stops altogether and turns to face him.

He’s dirt-smeared and bloodstained, hair collapsed around his face, a shorter mirror to Dante’s. Despite looking like something that’s been run over, he’s still got the regal, composed air to him, even as his coat hangs in shreds on his shoulders and the exhaustion settles in the lines of his face. How he pulls it off is a mystery Dante will never solve.

Without waiting much for a response or rejection from his brother, Dante casts his gaze around the hill, looking for somewhere he can get comfortable for a while. He finds it a few paces to the left, a small piece of rock with a bit of an overhang that'd give them some cover from above. It's just big enough they could both comfortably fit against it.  
  
Dante saunters off to it, trusting that Vergil will follow him, and throws himself dramatically down against the rock with a grunt. He watches Vergil from several feet away, his twin tilting his head in obvious question before shrugging and following suit. He sits beside Dante with considerably more delicacy and poise, perching against the rock and crossing his legs. Dante has to bury his hands into his pockets to smash down the urge to reach out and touch Vergil's shoulder or grab his hand; he's desperate for contact and feeling clingy about it, now that the moment of decision is here.  
  
"Are you okay?" Vergil asks, and Dante's jolted back to attention by the shockingly, uncharacteristically gentle way Vergil asks it. He quirks a brow at him, unable to contain his surprise.  
  
"I think I should be asking that question, because what," he says, and Vergil sighs and huffs at him in response. He wonders if he's ruined some kind of moment by just... being the way that he is, and he kicks himself for it, because if Vergil's willing to talk then he needs to capitalize on that and not let him get away without a heart to heart.  
  
A heart to heart... they haven't had a conversation about everything that's happened yet, and Dante's head is full of questions, things he wants to know about their time apart. He has always been like this: desperate for everything his twin can give him, feeling left out when he knows that Vergil has done something without him. He's reminded of when they were children, and he had been so possessive of Vergil, obsessed with the idea of having a brother, someone who was wholly dedicated to him. Someone he could go to for anything, be with at all times.  
  
Vergil hadn't felt exactly the same, had he? It had always been a point of contention between them, Dante's over aggressive neediness and Vergil's craving for peace and quiet and independence. They'd shared everything, and what few things they had kept to themselves had often caused bickering and fights between the siblings.  
  
It's so petty, looking back at it now. But he supposes that's how children behave, and they were no different—it's comforting to think of it that way, puts it into perspective. Despite what Vergil may think, they are both still mostly human, with human wants and needs. What Dante wants and needs right now is for Vergil to listen to him, to agree to come home with him without him having to drag him through kicking and screaming.  
  
He will, if he must, but he'd rather... not.  
  
"... Sorry."  
  
Vergil openly gapes at him.  
  
It's a good start, he thinks, because now he's thrown Vergil completely off guard, even though the word feels like he's had to pry it out of his chest. Apologizing isn't a thing they do, either. Dante figures it's about time they start if he's got any hope of making progress here.  
  
Dante clears his throat and starts again:  
  
"I'm good, just tired. You can't tell me you're not," he says, and Vergil mutters agreement, but he's still staring at Dante like he's not really sure who he's sitting next to. The way Vergil is analyzing him makes Dante squirm, and he looks away when he starts talking again, not sure he can keep it up under that gaze. It'd just be so much easier to smack him over the head and be done with it, but no. He's going to resolve this the way he should've the first time around.  
  
The way Eva would've wanted them to.  
  
"Look. I know you're still thinking about being a dumbass and staying here, and if that's what's best, then fine, whatever. But two things: I'm not leaving, if that's the case, so we better get lookin' for where we want to build our summer home, cause I'd love a real bed. I'm sick of the ground," he says, and Vergil doesn't answer yet, so Dante keeps charging head first into the inevitable mess that this conversation will become: "Second, you have to tell me /why./ We did what we came here to do, Vergil. No reason to stay now."  
  
Vergil seems to mull that over for a minute, and Dante watches every crease and twitch of his face for any indication of how he's taken Dante's request. He doesn't get what he's looking for; Vergil's slapped his icy exterior back into place, carefully hiding his emotions behind smooth features and sharp eyes.  
  
"What other option is there?" Vergil says, finally, slowly and quietly. Dante has to bite back the urge to start screaming already, decides instead to give Vergil the space to work this one out. He saw how he was as V, and if that experience taught him anything, its that Vergil needs time to work through this shit. He's somehow even worse than Dante at talking about, well, anything, but especially human things like emotions and worries and future plans that aren't "become the strongest demon in town."  
  
"Here's one: we go back home, take a shower, sleep for a week, go apologize to your son before he can kill us," Dante feels Vergil stiffen next to him at the mention of Nero, but he presses on anyway, "and I dunno, we start up the business again. Maybe I'll actually make some money with you there to help me out, you know how much I suck at managing the books."  
  
"That you do," Vergil says, and wow, okay, that was shockingly receptive. Dante pushes off the rock wall and kneels in the dirt where he can face Vergil head-on, giving him a full, unobstructed view of his brother. If looking at Vergil is like looking in a mirror, then he must look like the walking dead, because Vergil's about two steps away from looking like road kill.  
  
"Soooo..."  
  
"Fine."  
  
"Okay, hold on, that's it? No big argument, no stabbing, no dramatic 'but my poooower,' nothing?" Vergil glares at him, but it's pathetic, barely containing any of his normal vitriol. The dark bags under his eyes take some of the edge off of it.  
  
"I have to admit that my ventures so far have been... less than successful," Vergil says, trying to maintain his hold on his usual calculated composure and failing. "Perhaps we try things your way."  
  
"... Jesus, maybe being V did you some good, huh?" Vergil snarls at him, fangs bared, and Dante laughs with glee. "There we go, that's the Vergil response I was expecting." He drops back onto his heels, folding his legs to mirror Vergil's position. He's close enough that their knees touch and Vergil's visibly uncomfortable with the closeness between them, but Dante doesn't back up.  
  
"So we got a deal, then? We both go through that portal and you try actually being a productive member of society for once?"  
  
"Do you want me to change my mind?" There's a hint of a growl to his voice that sends a jolt down Dante's spine, which he covers with another laugh. He places a hand on Vergil's knee and squeezes.  
  
"Calm down, Cujo, it's just a bit of a surprise, alright? I definitely _don't_ want you to change your mind. Besides, I'm gettin' a little too old for this," he says, removing his hand from Vergil's knee and stretching, emphasizing his point with the cracking of his spine and shoulders.  
  
"I can tell," Vergil says, and Dante punches him in the thigh in indignation.  
  
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"  
  
"You're slower than I remember."  
  
"Oh, now that's just rude. You don't see me critiquing your wrinkles. Besides, _who_ is currently ahead?" Vergil rolls his eyes and crosses his arms and its such a childish maneuver that Dante can't help but laugh, which just gets him another glare. He's got déjà vu—this entire interaction is so achingly familiar he can picture them both, crouched in the dirt outside the house, out of breath and sweat stained. Dante telling Vergil he's two ahead in their game, Vergil vehemently denying it. Their mother watching from the window—  
  
He must've been making a face, because Vergil's fingers find his own resting on his leg and he gives them a gentle squeeze. It brings him back to reality, and he just nods at Vergil in thanks. That's not a path he wants to go down right now. Better to focus on the present, on the immediate future.  
  
On getting Vergil out of here.  
  
He's still not entirely convinced Vergil doesn't have something up his sleeve. They've been down that path so many times it's almost second nature at this point. He wants to believe that they're making ground, that maybe they can finally return to being a family again after all this time, but it's almost too easy.  
  
Or is it? The road here has been anything but, between Temen-ni-gru, Mallet, the Qliphoth. He's changed from all of that, knows he has—is it out of the realm of possibility that Vergil has, too?  
  
Dante gets to his feet. There's no point worrying about it; better to just get the damn thing over with and see what happens. He offers Vergil a hand, just like before, but this time, he actually takes it, wrapping gloved fingers around Dante's wrist and leaning on his strength to stand.  
  
They're doing this together, one way or another.  
  
They stay close as they work their way down the slope toward the point Vergil's picked out as their prime candidate for returning home. Once they reach the bottom, it drops off into a sharp cliff, and Dante whistles. It's an impressive piece of landscape, glowing fire and brimstone and all the usual hellish decor illuminating the pit beneath them. In the distance, he can sense the approach of demons, drawn to their presence in this new area. He points it out to Vergil, who nods.  
  
"I'll need a moment to find our way out," he says, and Dante cracks his neck and summons his sword in acknowledgement. Let Vergil handle the details. He'll deal with the fun part.  
  
Dante tears through the demons that come their way with ease, secretly thankful that they've yet to draw the attention of anything too big and nasty. He's not sure he's got it in him at this point. He twists away from a scythe, brings his sword down on the wielder's head, and kicks at an insect-type demon that's dive-bombing him from behind. Nearby, Vergil is wandering up and down the cliff-side, dispatching anything that gets to close with a nearly invisible slash of the Yamato.  
  
"Any luck?" Dante shouts, shooting another two demons from afar before just narrowly leaping out of the way of a third. Shit, he didn't hear that one coming. He's distracted by Vergil and his own exhaustion.  
  
"Here." Vergil's standing about twenty feet further down the cliff-side, and Dante jogs over to him, dealing with the stragglers that follow after. There's a buzz in the distance that's starting to get a little concerning, something probably interested in the fighting taking place nearby. He's got a pretty good feeling it's large, whatever it is.  
  
"Alright, do your thing," Dante says, and there's a moment where Vergil hesitates, and Dante's chest flutters in anticipation. If Vergil's going to do something, now's the time. He's torn between keeping his sword at the ready and making sure his hands are free, settling for the latter. Forget self-defense. He'll throw Vergil over his shoulder and walk him home that way if he has to, even if it means doing it with the Yamato sticking out of his chest. Nothing he hasn't dealt with before.  
  
The sight of the Yamato slicing through space will never cease to both amaze and intimidate Dante. It's such an effortless, silent thing, two swift strokes and the fabric of reality opens up to Vergil's whims.  
  
"Let's go," Dante says, placing a hand on Vergil's back, and his brother stands there as if he's frozen in place, expression complicated but unreadable.  
  
They don't have time for this.  
  
Dante shifts behind his brother with a blink, throws his weight against his back, and wraps his arms around his chest and arms. Vergil curses, there's a whooshing noise, and suddenly they're tumbling head first into a pile of broken wooden pallets, through the rift that's closing with a quiet suction of air behind them. Vergil's thrashing in his arms, kicking and grumbling, and Dante's lying on his brother's back, face smashed into the back of his head and buried into his hair.  
  
"Ugh, god, you stink." He releases Vergil and rolls off of him, flopping on his back on the pile of wood they came crashing in on. A cursory glance around the room tips him off that they're in some kind of abandoned warehouse, and judging by the hole in the ceiling it's both night and  
  
winter.  
  
Shit.  
  
"You are an insufferable asshole," Vergil says into the dirt and dust he's laying face down in, and Dante laughs, reaching over to flop his arm over Vergil's back. Neither of them have much fight left in them, especially not now that they're back in the human world, but Vergil still musters up the energy to jab him in the ribs with the Yamato's hilt to punctuate his words.  
  
"Yeah, but so are you. Runs in the family, I'm afraid. Our dad was an asshole, and his dad before him," he starts, but Vergil kicks him in the ankle, so he shuts up and just lies there next to him, breathing in the fresh air.  
  
There's a lot of shit they need to figure out. He has endless questions for Vergil, and Nero's almost certainly going to rip them both a new one when he finds out they're home; Lady's going to kick him in the face for bringing back Vergil, almost certainly; and if he's lucky, Trish will just let it drop, but that woman is as unpredictable as a storm.  
  
But it's not so bad, if he thinks about it, because they've made it back alive, _both_ of them, and hesitation or no, he's pretty sure Vergil wants it that way, too. Vergil's right hand has crept out from the pile of debris to rest idly on Dante's chest, and as they cling to each other in their exhausted victory, Dante thinks: I could get used to this.


End file.
